


Pins and Needles

by gaydaydreamer



Series: WTBS Extended Universe [2]
Category: She-Ra and the Princesses of Power (2018)
Genre: Angst, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, F/F, I'm Sorry, Mommy Issues, Past Sexual Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Trauma, ow oof ouch my Heart
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2019-09-28 07:50:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17178818
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gaydaydreamer/pseuds/gaydaydreamer
Summary: Adora longs for her skin to be replenished. Made clean. Scrubbed free of the shadows that cling there.





	1. growing pains

**Author's Note:**

> I uh didn't really intend for this fic to be my debut into the She-Ra fandom but manifested in my head fully formed and my brain would Not let me continue with anything else until it was written. Proceed with caution.

 Part I

//

The beds here swallow you. Even though Glimmer has procured what seems to be the only firm mattress in Bright Moon for your comfort, you can’t help but feel like you’re sinking. The air in the room is boggy, and it rises up around you in undulating waves that make it hard to relax into the soft embrace of sleep. Glimmer and Bow appear to have found it easily. Despite being curled up on your floor, their breathing is even and deep and their bodies have been motionless for hours.

Sleep rolls over you in fits and bursts, and sometimes you dream you are lying exactly as you are in the waking world-- on your back with a canopy of fabric gathered high in the rafters above you. Except in your dream it rustles, the fabric shifting like whispers that raise the hair on your neck. You’ve had this dream before, you know what comes next, but before the shadows can slink from between the folds of silk and engulf you, you startle yourself awake again. It’s easy enough to manage when you are already close to the surface. You won’t allow yourself to sink any deeper. You’d rather just spend tomorrow exhausted.

Sometimes there is a phantom itch on your leg, or the ghost of something shivering up the skin beneath your shirt and although you are so close to the precipice of sleep, you absolutely must shift your position again to be rid of it. You tremble, noticing how the moonlight catches in crystals that hang above every alcove, turning the shapes of your furniture into sinister sentries in the grey half-dark before sunrise. It isn’t your fault. Everything is so foreign here. The sound of your _bedroom waterfall_ roars in your ears. Was the white noise of machinery whirring in your cadet lodgings ever so agitating? It isn’t long before you’ve thrown the sheet off of you in frustration and decide your time is better spent wandering the halls, acquainting yourself with the layout of your _new home_.

The air outside your room is cooler, but it is a welcome change after being so stifled. You walk through the palace aimlessly, but it isn’t long before you realize that your legs are taking you to a familiar destination. There aren’t any murals on the walls in the Fright Zone, and this one in particular haunts you with its tragic beauty and the weight Queen Angella prescribed to it on your first official night in the castle. You gaze up into the carved visage of King Micah, haloed in the light from his staff. He must have been an incredible commander. Warrior. _Father._ Why is your chest so tight? Is it reverence? Perhaps envy? The thought is ridiculous but there is a tranquility that seeps into you the longer you stare, and for once the agitated hum of your body is quelled. At least until a voice behind you yanks you out of your reverie.

“You did well today, in Plumeria.” You jolt, turning abruptly to face whoever is intruding on your peace, even though a part of you already knows who’ll be standing there. The Queen of Bright Moon is immaculate even when she looks exhausted. You suppose she must have to; a good leader projects their strength through how well they are put together. Still it is a marvel to behold, the elegant way she carries herself, all glitter and gossamer and heavenly glow. The miraculous expanse of actual, functional _wings_ tucked neatly behind her. It is an echo of something you’ve felt before, in the presence of someone very different but identical in prowess and stature. This time you do not speak, not giving yourself the chance to fumble awkwardly over her title, but your bow is low and respectful. “Although it was not what I intended for your first mission,” she adds with a pointed raise of her eyebrow.

Your heart clenches with the memory of Glimmer’s words, of _grounded_. Whatever that means, it must be bad for the punishment to normally last three weeks. And then there is her affirmation of your worth, stirring a rapacity in you that has been latent since you deflected. These simple remarks of admonishment and approval grind against each other in your gut. It’s an unpleasantness that you’ve felt before, that you desperately wished to scrape out of you whenever it tainted your accomplishments as a cadet, that you never got to put right in any meaningful way.

You decide, as much as you want the Queen’s trust, this time you will not settle for it. “Queen Angella,” you begin, drawing her eyes away from the towering facade, “you punished Glimmer for disobeying you, but I disobeyed you too.” Her brow furrows and you swallow, clear your throat, continue. “It was my idea to engage the Horde in combat. I should...” oh, it’s so much harder than you thought, but that is how you know it’s right and you press on before you can lose your nerve. “I should be grounded too.”

Her brow unkints, the corner of her mouth twitches, and for a horrifying moment you think the Queen of Bright Moon is going to laugh in your face. But her resolve must be impeccable because she says, in as even a tone as if she were discussing something mundane, “I’m not going to ground you.”

“But--”

She waves a hand dismissively and her wings twitch. “I’m not your mother, Adora.”

Your whole body flares to life with stinging humiliation. The way she says it-- like it’s supposed to make you understand something about punishment and reward that you’ve clearly missed-- makes your cheeks burn. You _know_. You already know she isn’t. You don’t want-- “Yes Your Majesty,” is all you say, before turning back around to gaze at the mural again and conceal the blush creeping down your neck.

//

The echo of your boots on the polished marble is the only sound in the empty hall, but it is resounding. You are twelve, but only just. The youngest cadet in your unit, sometimes you can feel the other trainees’ eyes on you, waiting for you to falter. The only one who doesn’t seem irked by your success is Catra, although Shadow Weaver’s blatant favoritism has a way of testing that indifference. You are called into the cavernous Black Garnet room often and she frowns at you when you leave, is conspicuously absent when you return. You wish you could tell her what it’s like to be alone with Shadow Weaver in her sacred space, if it is indeed like anything at all. But it’s a reward that your friend is explicitly barred from receiving. You are privileged to stride down that familiar hall, head held high, with no trepidation or expectation of punishment. Would Catra believe that you are never certain what she wants from you, that the fear only abates when Shadow Weaver beckons you forward with gentle urgency instead of mirthful malice? Catra would scoff. _You’re her favorite. She’d never punish you_. Her voice ringing snidely with jealousy. And so you conceal the nagging doubt from your friend, as somewhat of a courtesy. The door slides open before you can even lift your hand to it.

Shadow Weaver’s touches are rare, lingering, and almost always welcome. “Come here, Adora,” and you like the way your name feels tangible when she says it, you like the way it rubs up against you as if it is just another one of her living shadows. This is a reward, then. You come here, you don’t even hesitate.

She caresses your face and then your hair, right along the edge of your scalp where the baby hairs spring free of your ponytail. Beneath the mask, her ochre eyes burn with satisfaction and it hurts to look into them but you always always meet her stare. You are grateful. You want her to see it. One hand lingers at the nape of your neck, where sometimes Shadow Weaver will grip you possessively and steer you how she pleases. Guided into place like a toy, her possession. The other drops down to the hollow of your throat where her thumb rubs. Just enough pressure to feel uncomfortable. But never ever unwelcome. This is her praise. And that hard kernel of terror you feel when she’s around you, when she reaches out, before you’re sure the touch won’t be bruising? You swallow it. The urge to cough seizes you, but you suppress that too.

“Good girl,” she purrs. The fire of extolment rushes through your blood, urgent and molten. You _are_ good. You are her soldier. Your pulse is pounding in your ears and your whole face stings with delicious heat.

When Shadow Weaver has you alone like this, you try not to feel guilty. It has nothing to do with Catra, with being _favored_. You are just special. You work hard. Catra wouldn’t understand how much it satisfies you to be appreciated in ways you can measure and catalogue. Words of acknowledgement slough right off of you, but touch lingers. It scratches an itch that squirms between your ribs. It soothes the longing buried beneath your skin like a splinter.

It’s longer than you expected this time, and she is lulling you. You stare and stare until your eyes are half-lidded and fluttering, and her gaze is no longer painful to look into but buttery soft. You don’t even realize that your mouth is open until she presses her fingers to it, and the gesture startles you somewhat out of your trance. It’s a new kind of touch, and you’re not sure what to make of it. But her fingers are gentle in their tracing, coaxing your mouth open further until the tips of them brush against your teeth. She looks expectant, and you let her slip past, pressing in around your tongue. The touches continue in earnest, both on the back of your neck and in your mouth, over your tongue, against the yielding walls of your cheeks, rubbing your molars and the mounds of gum further behind them.

You could bite down. Maybe she wants you to-- she’s certainly given you tests that are more incomprehensible. But it’s then that she removes her fingers almost all the way and your eyes snap open-- had they been closed this whole time?-- to meet the scorching intensity of her stare. The gentle, wet press of her fingertips on your bottom lip, it’s a challenge. Your body floods with heat and you want, desperately, to meet her every expectation.

You suck her fingers in and let the sour tang of her skin coat your palate. She shifts, and then pushes deeper into your mouth until you gag in spite of yourself. Hot tears prick the corners of your eyes and you need to swallow but you can’t and when she presses again you feel all of the saliva in your mouth churn. It’s hard to tell just by looking at her if you’ve done something wrong, if this is still a reward or just a new kind of trick to make the punishment that much more distinct. Your eyes plead, _why now? Why this?_ But her expression is still unreadable.

Her hand withdraws after several thrusts, back and forth, a kind of pulse you can’t enjoy but one that sinks all the way down to your stomach anyway. Or maybe lower. You are too dizzy to be self-conscious about how much you salivate, how coated her hand is.

“Very good, Adora.” Shadow Weaver’s voice is a low, slow slur, like a trickle of blood between your shoulder blades. Instinctively you arch your back and feel the shiver settle somewhere around your hips. She turns away from you, and the dismissal is clear. You swallow several times in a row as you walk back, to chase the remnants of her presence away down your throat. It almost works. That night you lay awake, staring at the slate grey ceiling of the barracks but not even really seeing it. Maybe you feel like crying, but the tears don’t come easy and you’re not about to make them. You want to touch your lips, press into the soft wet flesh inside your cheek, around your tongue. You want to know what she was searching for but the thought of exploring yourself over places she’s already claimed makes you queasy. You fold your hands behind your head and trap them there, afraid of what you might feel should you allow them to wander.

//

After the first couple of nights, you resolve to carve out a place for yourself here. Even if you must do so as a ghost hewn from twilight, stalking the halls of the slumbering palace like a shadow. You linger in the moon-stained corridors, always vigilant for darkness burgeoning in your periphery, pausing midstep as your gaze climbs up into the rafters. Reflexive caution that you’ve learned to swallow in the presence of Bow and Glimmer overtakes you as you trawl the winding passages for solace. You lose count of how many times you must reassure yourself that you are well and truly alone.

It’s far too late for her to be there and yet as you round the corner there she stands. Angella is motionless in front of the mural, an effigy in her own right, chiseled out of pink tourmaline, radiant as a star. Moonlight slants across her skin in cascading shafts of silver. You have seen many beautiful things since you defected, but the sight of her hooks into you-- not just well put together but resplendent, a supernova among common pulsars. Your breath catches and you stumble backwards, hoping to retreat before she can see you there, intrusive and awestruck. But your faltering step reverberates in the cavernous space, and she turns her whole body to look at you, incandescent wings unfurling to slice through ribbons of moonbeam. The mural soars above her in soft lavender and alabaster hues, broken up by splashes of purple as deep as twilight. It enfolds her in its splendor, the painted face of her husband looming over her protectively. As a pair they must have been striking. Her eyebrows are raised but her expression mellows from shocked to expectant and you realize you’ve been standing there staring at her for some time with your mouth agape. You want to apologize but your throat is clogged, intimidated into rapt silence by her beauty.

“Your Majesty.” Your chest is tight, jaw locked in place, but you manage to pry the words out of you, hoping she doesn’t notice how strained it sounds. And you hinge at the waist, your bow stiff and low. Respectful. Repenant.

“Adora,” she says, in a voice that betrays nothing. You’ve been caught witnessing something private, and much like your first night in Bright Moon you wait for her reprimand, tension drawing your body into a rigid line. Remarks of approval she’s bestowed upon you since then have taken some of the edge off the apprehension you feel, but not enough that you can keep the tremble from your hands without clenching your fists at your sides.

But you are bracing for an impact that never comes. She turns away from you again, the sound of shifting silk and rustling feathers melting delicately into the walls like a sigh of longing. Every single one of her gestures is poised and practiced, but the fastidiousness of her movements is undercut by her softness. Queen Angella, in the process of turning, has positioned herself slightly to the left of where she stood moments before. And the empty space beside her beckons, as close to permission as you’re going to get.

Your step falls heavily on the granite, a shout of astonishment at this sudden, tentative camaraderie that has formed between you and the Queen. Maybe she flinches as you approach, but she conceals it too quickly for you to be sure. And then you are practically shoulder to shoulder with her, your ears ringing with cacophonous silence, wondering what about this particular moment is making your heart beat so raucously that your ribs are sore.  

“You haven’t been sleeping well,” it isn’t a question but you nod anyway. Unsure if she even saw the gesture, you scratch at the discomfort beneath your skin, blunt nails biting you in perfect crescents. _Stop fidgeting_ , Shadow Weaver would scold, as if you were always in possession of impeccable control over your nerves. There were plenty of times when this compulsion would have you drawing blood without realizing but here, now, in front of _her,_ you make a conscious effort to withdraw, unable to stomach any further humiliation.

“You remind me of him sometimes,” she says. The words ring hollow and high up into the vaulted ceiling, striking you as they rise. Lavender eyes roam over the marble edifice. You don’t need to ask who. Vignettes of grief already unspool in your mind’s eye-- her searching an empty room for a familiar silhouette in the middle of the night, the hopeful twinkle in her eyes vanishing over and over when she realizes the sound of boots on marble is only a guard, her face swollen and rubbed raw from crying. So many vulnerable moments made public by her station. It squeezes your heart like a vice to think about it. Her jaw twitches, and in her eyes you catch glimpses of the whetstone of anguish that ground her down, honed her into a creature of caution and severity.

“I don’t mean to,” you say, in a stale whine that makes you wince. Then, after clearing your throat, “I’m sorry.” Your apology-- like your perfect posture-- is reflexive, a gesture of deference you offer when you’re unsure what else is appropriate. Again you whisper, “I’m sorry,” as if it bears repeating.

But the Queen is too deep in her own thoughts for your reproach to reach her. “So proud,” she continues, unaware of how you bristle beside her. Unaware of the prickling indignant heat that climbs all the way from your gut up into your cheeks. You are _not--_ “So determined to do everything on your own.” Her wings shift in an involuntary spasm of distaste that reminds you of Catra’s tail twitch. Whatever vestiges of memory that cling to her, prompting her comparison, slice you in twain better than any blade. It makes you wish she had scolded you, or even struck you. At least then you wouldn’t have been left with the sickening guilt of watching her nurse a decades-old wound that you poke and prod with your very presence in her kingdom.

_Why is she punishing you?_ It happened long before you knew her, and you’re _sorry_ , and you’ve proven yourself trustworthy. But now, because you’ve intruded on her solace, you are the one who has to answer for her grief. You clench your jaw so hard your back teeth ache. What more can you offer, short of setting yourself aflame to cauterize the wound? “Your Majesty, I’m not--”

She swivels to face you so fast that her half-folded wing brushes up against the carved stone and her eyes bore into you with an intensity that makes it hard for you to swallow. Any further protestations you have die in your throat. “Is that how Hordak raised you?” Despite the icy calm of her voice there is something dangerous, almost furious, dancing in her eyes. Finally she has extricated herself fully from memory, and you can’t say you prefer her full attention. You are pinned in place, like the rows upon rows of specimens that lined the walls of Shadow Weaver’s private library. Everything in that room reeked of rotting paper, and it was all you could do to stifle your sneezes.

“I was raised by Shadow Weaver,” you say, unflinching even though looking her in the eye guts you. Shadow Weaver, who let you sit at the mahogany desk in her library when you could barely see over the edge, and taught you to sound out every word in those large musty tomes. Who patiently adjusted your fighting stance until it was perfect. _Back leg closer, shoulders squared, good girl_. You draw your shoulders back now as well, all rigid steel. Defiant. “My commanding officer,” you clarify, because you want her to know that being found, being raised, isn’t the same as belonging. The Horde engulfed you like a riptide before you ever had a chance to learn what standing on solid ground felt like. And you are not sorry, not this time.

She is very still, regarding you with one raised eyebrow, lips parted as if you have stolen the breath from her lungs. “I see.” The fire in her that could have consumed you moments ago has vanished, and her shoulders sag. It has taken a toll on her, you realize, to share this moment with you. And maybe it isn’t you she resents after all. Maybe you are only a mirror, reflecting back the parts of herself she’d rather ignore. You are overcome with the inexplicable urge to touch her, and your hand is halfway extended before you realize what you are doing and jerk it back. She notices, of course, and is unable to conceal her surprise. But in lieu of mentioning it-- to grant or deny a liberty you didn’t even know you wanted to take-- she asks you, gently, “was she...was she much like a mother to you, then?”

Oh. You weren’t expecting that. But you cannot-- no, you _refuse_ to lie to her. “Well yea, but…” _But her hands were strong and sure against your skin. But her eyes cleaved you open with their hunger._ _But she never had even a measure of Angella’s fervent concern for Glimmer, or her righteous protectiveness, or her tenderness._ What truth can you possibly offer the Queen that won’t horrify her? You still dream of shadows coiling around you in languid tendrils. You still shudder at the memory of how bright her anger could burn. And here is something else you’d rather not think about-- it wasn’t always fear. “But it was different. Not like you and Glimmer.” Not like that at all.

//

The only source of light in the room is the Black Garnet, its crimson veins pulsing and shifting beneath crystal. You trace those patterns in your mind as Shadow Weaver places her hands firmly on your biceps. “Adora, flex for me,” she instructs. You curl your arms and allow yourself a smirk of satisfaction when defined muscles stretch the thin fabric of your uniform sleeves. No jacket today, at Shadow Weaver’s request. She squeezes, but you are toned and unyielding from rigorous drill schedules, and the noise she makes then almost sounds like appraisal. She releases you too soon, slinking back into the shadow of her runestone and you are very careful to swallow any grunt of protest.

Several breathless moments pass before she moves again, and this time you can’t hold back a gasp as her hands push up and under your shirt. “Flex,” and once more you obey without hesitation, pulling your stomach taught. Why is your face so hot? She isn’t touching you for the sake of touching, nor is she rewarding you. She is examining her property, because that is what you are-- a product of her careful cultivation. It’s not meant to make you squirm with pleasure, so you don’t permit yourself to.

You always expect her fingers to be colder, but her caress is warm, almost gentle. Stroking. Kneading. You whimper, ravenous for her approval. “Excellent,” she purrs. And even with the mask in place you can hear the smile behind it.

You smile as well, and suppress a shudder as her hands travel further upward. It doesn’t occur to you that this is out of the ordinary. As your commanding officer Shadow Weaver has always taken special interest in how your body is developing. “You’ll need to start wearing a bra soon,” she says, pushing your shirt up to your armpits. Your breasts don’t even come close to filling her hands when she cups them, but she still gives a faint hum of approval when she runs her thumbs over your nipples and they instantly stiffen. You’d turn yourself inside out in order to pass her scrutiny. To belong here, among the ranks of the Horde. To belong to _her_. It feels a lot like love, this ache. And the attention may put you on edge, but it’s good too. You are expansive with the throe and throb of it. And a rush of feeling, of something stirring to life in you, however painful, is so much better than nothing at all. It’s pins and needles deep in your bones, the kind that can’t be cured by simply massaging a stiff limb. But it hums to you so sweetly, promising that now you are finally awake.

Shadow Weaver pinches and pulls at you until your eyes water, and after a while there is no pretending that you’re not gasping, not leaning into her caress. You are waiting for something inside you to crest, something incomprehensible that her touch is guiding you to the pinnacle of, but before you can even conceive of how to reach it she removes her hands completely. Her low chuckle makes your cheeks flush. “You like this?” she asks, as she presses her palms to your skin once more and you bite your lip to stifle a whine.

“Yes Shadow Weaver,” you say, and it surprises you how out of breath you sound.

“Good girl.” Her words send a ravenous thrill through your whole body. There’s a sharp twinge between your legs, similar to when you have to pee, and you dig your nails into the sides of your thighs to keep from squirming. Eventually you are dismissed, and you return to the barracks feeling agitated, unable to unwind the tight, hot coil that has manifested inside you.

//

 


	2. flash suppression

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Mystacor, Adora must navigate through the muck and mire of her trauma

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I,,,, LIVE,,,
> 
> So like….season 2 is really good right?? Listen, this chapter….was v difficult 2 write… I wrote and rewrote it like 6 times probably and tbh I’m still not satisfied but….NEW SEASON. So yea I need to just drop this and keep on truckin’  
> Anyway, BIG THANK to everyone who kudos-ed and left nice encouraging comments, it means so much I had NO IDEA if anyone would want to even read this but here u are!! Hope this is ?? worth the wait somewhat.  
> Also...not gonna say I called the Micah/Adora parallel but… *dabs*
> 
> IMPORTANT CW, and I’m...really sorry in advance for this but...explicit descriptions of menstruation abound.

Part II

//

Tranquility is a sensation that runs over you like amber, pleasant but with the threat to calcify. Mystacor in all of its peaceful, eerie splendor is the oak from which the resin seeps. Even without shadow spies stalking you like ravenous dogs, you find it hard to quiet your pounding heart and the nervous current of energy that runs through you. Waves of clouds lapping against the sun-warmed sand mimic the raspy breath of an unseen enemy. The steam grotto writhes and shifts with shapes obscured in the balmy air. Shadow Weaver’s ghost still lingers in the eaves, her presence still drips from the rafters, and if you pause for long enough you can feel it prickling its way down your spine, promising to subsume you.

Pale twilight illuminates every corner as you walk the Hall of Sorcerers for a second time. As always, you are awake while the rest of the world sleeps, but this time it is deliberate. There is a particular catharsis in confronting your demons, in re-asserting your power over something that once made you dizzy with fear. It is not a compulsion that you believe Bow and Glimmer would sympathize with, so you’ve elected to leave them out of it. The comfort of their presence in the immediate aftermath of the battle was welcome, but this you must do alone.

At the end of the hall an imposing figure is there to greet you, and your breath catches as you are once again faced with the extent of the damage her statue has sustained. The ribbons of soot scarring the smooth surface of her form. Cracks racing up the polished stone. The gem in her palm dull where all others light up the carved faces of their keepers.

Did Light Spinner do it herself before being exiled? It is easy enough to picture her furious stride, and the sharp crackle of light leaping from her palms in a malevolent arc to permeate the stone. Hungry tongues of energy as bright as the sun flicker through fissures in the granite until the entire edifice is brindled with scorch marks. The remnants of her magic spark and hiss and catch in her hair like snowflakes as she basks in the splendor of destruction. She was young once, severely beautiful and feral with power, too vast to be contained in these gilded halls.

When she attacked you during the eclipse, you hadn’t been sure if Shadow Weaver’s revelation was true or just another trick. But as you stare at the battered facade of her-- livid with moonlight and sinister pride twinkling in her chiseled eyes-- there can be no doubt. This is the woman who raised you, who promised you Etheria and the full breadth of your own vastness. All those years you couldn’t look at her directly, couldn’t see past the radiance of all the guidance and praise and affection she bestowed upon you. Somehow this ravaged replica feels truer than the woman hidden behind the mask ever was.

It doesn’t always feel fair to evoke the names of people and places you never knew, to pledge yourself to echoes left in a blade in order to access the traces of magic that bind you to it. The dualities ensnare you. Adora and She-Ra. Light Spinner and Shadow Weaver. Did the Black Garnet ever sing to her in lilting melodies of unfathomable power that buzz loud enough to hurt her teeth? Did it ever impart ancient words into her head like precious gifts? Or did she always wring the magic out herself, as one might squeeze water from a towel, honor bound to no one.

 _For the honor of Grayskull_ . Words that do not mean anything to you except as a plea, the repetition of a prayer that only your sword can answer. Words alone cannot protect you. Yet when you crumpled in on yourself in the Lunarium, when you lacked the strength to strike against her, the words were calm and clear in your head, and you rose, shield in hand. Honor indeed, but also guilt, burgeoning in the pit of your stomach like gall. It was her hand that steered you. Mended you. Caressed you. Oh, how the thought of her touch makes you shudder still. The darkness was always there to greet you, licking your heels in long tendrils the color of bruised thighs. And you let it, even after you left the Horde behind. Sticky heat filled you in edacious waves before you could stop it. Her voice was syrupy and beckoning even as it squeezed you to the point of suffocation. _You were nothing before I took you in. You will be nothing without me._ It is imperative to remind yourself this isn’t true, lest you dissolve completely in the acrid torrent of it.

Your heart jackhammers against your ribs and your fists are clenched, but nothing slinks from behind the statue to claim you. There are no hissing voices that only you can hear echoing off of the stonework. Even the dust motes that filter through the slanting moonlight appear perfectly still, suspended in time like the towering likenesses of Mystacor’s former leaders. Shadow Weaver is gone, cast out by She-Ra’s divine light. You are safe in your vow, and the Sword of Protection is true to its name.

Another figure down the line draws your attention, and your gaze falls on the statue of King Micah, his alabaster exterior pristine by comparison. Despite Glimmer’s assertion to the contrary, you can see the resemblance in the shape of his face, the nose, the set of his brow. Your eyes trace over the surface of him, noting where this depiction differs from the ones you've seen before. He is lit from beneath, making his eyes appear sharper and his jawline more severe. Without any splashes of color to soften it, there is something hollow and haunted in the pure ivory pallor of his face. You hug your arms to your chest, unnerved for reasons you cannot discern. The proud dead king that asked for nothing and leaned on no one. Allegedly. And next to him the menacing sorceress who taught you to do the same.

It is almost strange, to stare up at him without Queen Angella by your side. And stranger still that you crave her presence, considering the few interactions you’ve had have been tepid at best. What would she say, if it’d been her charge from which you had defected? A thought that catches you off guard with its prickly pleasure. Dangerous territory for your mind to wander into but you can’t help yourself-- imagining that her composure could be shaken by your departure. That she could be relentless. That she _wants_ you and would do anything to get you back.

You sway in place beneath the blanched bastion, suddenly enamored with how that hypothetical want might settle against your skin, were circumstances different. Perhaps you are willing to burn fierce and bright for her after all. You’ve already laid your sword and your life at her feet. A perfect soldier, eager to be split open and exsanguinate all your honor and loyalty and magic onto her pretty hands. It is certainly something to consider, the next time she wishes to burden you with the mantle of her grief. It might even be pleasant to let the weight of her sorrows crush your bones to dust, or at least better than the suffocating rancor of Shadow Weaver’s clutches. The first rays of dawn are cruel and sharp as they break through the grandiose window panes, and exhausted in every way possible, you must turn away from the effigies of the past.

Midmorning, you arrive in Bright Moon for the first time since you left to recruit Entrapta for the Princess Alliance. As the silhouette of the palace breaks over the horizon, you are caught in the rapture of its beauty. For a moment you pause just to look at it-- moons cresting buoyantly over amaranthine cliffs and golden spires, light fracturing the clear water into shimmering crystals and rippling through the Moonstone. Glimmer beams at you, and there is _home_ sparkling in her gaze and radiating from her smile. You belong here, where the soft hues of stone and sky don’t strain your eyes, where kindness is as easy as breathing and love isn’t tempered with sinister promises. Bow has his arms around you and Glimmer, and you allow the touch to send a billow of warmth through your weary heart.

The Queen is there to greet you, with the daylight turning her wings a supple yellow and making her eyes sparkle. There is always, you note, a brief wash of relief that breaks over her dignified face when Glimmer returns to her unharmed. She glides forward in a flurry of feathers and silk, her decorous disposition dissolving as she enfolds Glimmer in an embrace. Glimmer protests, squirms, and eventually phases out of her mother’s reach altogether.

 _Why?_ You must work to keep the consternation off of your face whenever your friend eschews her mother’s affections. She doesn't know what touch is like, when it ruptures the skin with sanguine heat. Or when it promises to stroke the marrow-deep ache in you, only to retreat before you are satisfied. She will never be leery in the few heartbeats before Queen Angella reaches her. You should not begrudge her.

The reunion is over almost immediately. Glimmer teleports directly to the Runestone to recharge, and Bow splits off before you enter the castle proper, leaving you alone at the threshold with the Queen. A beat of silence as the two of you regard each other, before Angella clears her throat. “Would you like to debrief me, then?”

It is not an order, though every statement that passes her lips has a deliberately crafted and commanding tone to it. Even so, you have no desire to refuse. Her thorough scrutiny of you, though sometimes bordering on hostile, is nothing compared to Shadow Weaver’s onslaught. It grants you an unfamiliar peace to be able to report to an authority who doesn’t extract pleasure from your timorousness. Not to mention this escalating vivacity she sparks in you, a transistor to coil your livewire heart around.

You fall into step beside her, the heels of her lacquered boots clacking against the tile, two of her palace guards trailing behind. Apprehension tickles the back of your throat as you realize that Shadow Weaver and her vicious pursuit of you are very much a part of this story. You cannot omit it, yet it is just occurring to you that your account of what transpired may prompt questions you are reluctant to answer, or worse still, questions you’d rather not think about at all.

So you speak of Dryl first, and securing Princess Entrapta’s allegiance, and the way she looks at you-- beaming with pride, her nod of approval and the heavenly heat it instills in you, her gaze as soft and persistent as a summer storm-- is all _so much_ and _so good_ that you forget your trepidation entirely. Your account of Dryl bleeds into Mystacor, and before you know it you are speaking of nightmares and shadows and a confrontation that brought you breathlessly to your knees. The glow fades from her face and her brow furrows. She halts abruptly and you stumble to do the same. In your periphery you notice the guards have stopped as well in order to maintain a respectful distance.

“Light Spinner,” she says. “I haven’t heard that name in a long time.” Her wings twitch, and her back becomes almost imperceptibly more rigid. There is a bitterness to her voice that lowers the temperature around you by several degrees, and a shiver crawls across the back of your neck and up to your scalp. You are fluent in the language of a Commanding Officer’s discomfort and the delicate dance of contrition that comes after, like defusing a faulty charge.

Her face is unreadable, and although your account of events is more or less finished, you fumble for something more to say. “I saw King Micah’s statue,” is the subject you settle on. And at his name you can feel her flinch. “It was right next to hers.” Twin pillars, a monument to overlapping pasts, and a hurt inflicted that is so different but that brings you and the Queen of Bright Moon to the same moonlit corridors over and over again, moths drawn heedlessly to the flame of old sorrows. _We have this in common_ , is what you mean to say, but it is something that can’t be articulated properly with your limited understanding of motherhood and marriage and pain.

The Queen does not comment directly on this remark, instead she gives you a very deliberate once-over, taking into account your unwashed hair pulled into a scrappy ponytail, your dirty uniform, gaunt expression, and the tension in your shoulders. Her inspection makes your heart beat faster and your hands twitch with the urge to fix and fuss until you pass muster.

“Adora, you know I have to ask you--”

You shouldn’t interrupt her but, “I’m fine.” Except for the guilt that wrenches and rives your heart every time you think about it. The shadows that crawled across the floor of the Lunarium were so familiar that you froze out of habit, instinctively resigned to offering penance. It was a moment of weakness, but long enough for her to tease at something hard in the back of your throat that you thought you had swallowed long ago. But you really are fine. Alive, and with a new power-- the power to shield-- in you repertoire.

“You’re exhausted, look at you!” Queen Angella is regarding you now with an irritated, drawn out pity that makes the embarrassment flare up inside you, the feeling of falling short scorching your cheeks. She crosses her arms and flares her wings out to their full span, her expression daring you to disagree with her assessment.

Disappointment and doubt flow from her, as clear and cold as the sea at dawn. You take a step back, then another, and your head is buzzing with the thought of fleeing altogether. As she moves towards you, you really do consider just bolting, but you grit your teeth and stand your ground. At the very least you are capable of recognizing that this urge comes from a place far deeper than Queen Angella could ever touch. She is the estuary tide, surging and brackish but the throes of her temper are never more than a tug around you ankles. It is impossible to be dragged under the brine, impossible to drown where you stand.

She re-folds her wings with a guilty rustle, and the vexation contorting her elegant features ebbs into a much milder, glistening concern. This time it is her hand that comes up, hesitates over a handful of inches that might as well be miles of jagged canyon, and then retracts. “It’s ok to miss her you know,” she says, her voice so soft you almost miss her words entirely.

“I don’t.” You shudder at the thought of Shadow Weaver’s fury-- indiscriminately dispersing shrapnel, and her favor-- which could sometimes be just as biting. It is impossible to dig the shards out of your skin once you’ve felt them. “I don’t miss her at all.”

It doesn’t matter if you are _allowed to_ , that is not a permission that the Queen has power to grant. What you feel or don’t is yours alone, the only thing from the Fright Zone that you brought along when you left. And what you really miss isn’t Shadow Weaver herself but the lingering touch, the husky rasp of praise, the unfurling sensation of longing deep within you and your whole body fervid with a fire that needs to be stoked with a firm but gentle hand. Isn’t that what you are here for? Returning to Queen Angella again and again despite the way her meticulousness rakes over you, determined to lay bare what you are just as eager to lock away.

“Very well.” She is transparently dubious, and it angers you to have your honesty conflated with _stubbornness_ and _pride_ . A proud man, a dead man. And the woman who raised you, prouder still. Ghosts that only she can see linger on you and ghosts you cannot look at cling to her. Memory is not the smooth surface of a mirror but the warped edge of crumpled steel. The moments and feelings will always be distorted, and there is no point in trying to puzzle over what is acceptable to hold on to. You were hers then, and now you belong here in Bright Moon. Now you belong to a queen. If she really wants to help you heal, wants to pull the remnants of Shadow Weaver from you and dress your wounds, then what you need, what you _really_ need is--

“Your Majesty,” you say, standing tall and looking her in the eye, “I want you to know I’d do anything for you.”

For a moment she remains silent, eyebrows raised. “Anything? That doesn’t seem reasonable.” Her face softens and the mirth in her eyes returns-- a soundless laugh-- and you wonder if this is another joke at the expense of your ignorance, like when she refused to ground you alongside Glimmer. It wasn’t that you needed, or even wanted to be punished like a daughter would be, but in the moment it had seemed fair and right for the two of you-- her devoted generals-- to be rewarded or chastened as equals. What Glimmer had dubbed _Mom Stuff_ , you are only beginning to learn the boundaries and limitations of, if indeed there are any. The Queen’s love for her daughter certainly seems boundless. _How can you earn a love like that?_ As much as you want to tell her that you don’t understand how to speak to her or what to ask for, that’s not what a good soldier _does_.

Instead, you double down. “I don’t care. I mean it. Anything you ask of me.” Your words are annoyingly querulous, snagging on your tongue as you say them. But it is right. In the Fright Zone, In Bright Moon, under the crushing thumb of a general or the benevolent touch of a queen-- this is what you were raised for. _Honor._ The satisfying crack of an enemy weapon shattering against your shield and the clamor of power racing through you as you disarm and conquer are the songs you live to hear. Your singular focus is the same as it always was. You are a finely honed blade, no matter which direction you are pointed.

“You’re already here, Adora.” She rests the palm of her hand your shoulder, finally touching you, and the earth shifts beneath your feet, the ravine closes. A particular itch squirms inside your heart. Your skin burns and begs for more and this, _this_ is the kind of attention that is quantifiable to you. “If you must do something for me, get some rest.” Her voice strangles your heart with it’s earnestness and it’s all you can do not to cover her hand with your own and hold it there. Or bring it to your face, your lips, the nape of your neck.

“Yes Your Majesty,” you say, although you cannot promise her your agitation will abate any more than you can promise yourself. But the warm pressure of her hand on you as she squeezes, her radiant smile falling on you alone-- _oh_ _you will certainly try_. Satisfied, she withdraws, and a part of you is relieved. As much as you crave her compassion, it frightens you. It reminds you of the many many absences, and what Shadow Weaver did to fill in the gaps. And it is here where you make the mistake of looking directly into the sun while it is being eclipsed. It is here where you sustain a kind of mental retinopathy-- assuming one thing can obscure another so completely that it is no longer dangerous to look at.

“Angella,” the Queen replies, and it takes a moment for you to understand what she is saying but then, “Angella is fine.” An intent to reward with her trust, her respect. An attempt to acknowledge what you’ve given and what it’s cost you. An invitation for the two of you to understand each other, or at least begin to.

“Angella,” you echo, allowing her name to roll off your tongue for the first time, filling your mouth with its decadence and your synapses with delicious frisson.

//

Fourteen is marked by the arrival of blood. A blood that does not bubble up from broached skin but flows from the core of you, where escalating stirrings of longing emanate. It begins with what you assume is just a stitch in your side from over-exertion. Force Captain is an honor within your sight and you reach for it avidly, solo drilling every night until your muscles are sore. When you finally return to the dormitory, Catra is already curled at the foot of your bed, quiet except for the gentle snore that she’s had ever since Lonnie broke her nose a year ago in a sparring exercise. You’d held her tearfully in your arms after, as the blood oozed between her clasped fingers and stained the shirt of your uniform.

Shadow Weaver admonished you for it, and at the time you could not properly explain that your inability to prevent the injury lanced you with such intense remorse, it was as if you too had suffered a blow. _It will mend, Adora. A good soldier must remain composed no matter the circumstances._ You’ve bested Catra in combat many times since then, and with each victory you recall Shadow Weaver’s words, and stifle the impulse to console your friend’s bruised pride. Dutifully, you square your shoulders and pretend not to notice that it bothers her. There are bigger things demanding your focus, and you are certain that once the two of you are out of the Fright Zone and conquering Etheria together, all will be forgiven.

But a daydream of your shared future, however pleasant, cannot distract from the pain blossoming in your abdomen. Massaging the stitch in the shower does little to unknot it, and you frown as you press lower, searching for the gnarl of tension that you must work free. It fades of its own accord, replaced with a warm trickle down your leg, and the tepid water swirling into the drain flushes fuschia.  

The panic you feel is immediate, ringing in your ears and pounding in your throat like a second heart. The tap screeches off and for a moment you just stand there, dripping and frantic as the air chills your skin. Scarlet droplets cling to the insides of your thighs and you smear them onto your trembling fingers. Another gut-twisting spasm makes you gasp, and the coiled ache that settles between your hips is dull and wholly strange to you. A cramp from a muscle you didn’t know existed, buried too deep to be eased out with pressure or heat.

You cup one hand between your legs and use the other to dry yourself, wary of the towel coming in contact with your blood. To your horror, the bleeding seems to intensify, sticking to your fingers as you try to stem the flow of it. Until now, your world has been small-- its obstacles manageable, its rules understood. With the blood accumulating, you feel it broaden far past the scope of your comprehension, and with it comes the knowledge that you cannot face this humiliating, terrifying thing on your own. You close your eyes and lean your head against the cool tile of the shower stall. This has to be dealt with, and there is only one person in all the Fright Zone that you trust to do the dealing.

You scrub the blood off your hands, line your trunks with the scratchy dormitory toilet paper, and dress yourself, all the while struggling to regulate your shaky breathing. Before you leave the locker room you bend over in front of the mirror a dozen times, checking for a scarlet stain along the seam of your breeches. It’s lucky that there are no other cadets around this late. There would be no hiding the pallor of your face, the stiff way you walk to keep from disrupting the paper barrier between your legs.

You open the door and peer out into the empty hall. Sickbay is only two levels down from the cadet lodgings and there is always a medic on call, although that is not where you’ve been taught to go for training injuries. Instead you’d find yourself in the Black Garnet room, where it was Shadow Weaver who patched your scrapes and splinted your sprains, her hands steady and attentive, her eyes lurid in the dimness of her quarters. But this is unlike any wound you’ve sustained from sparring. The steady seep of blood from your center is strange and sinister, an affliction you’ve only heard whispers of from other female cadets. It is not like your body to betray you like this, to surrender to the same weaknesses that impede your peers.

 _Will she be disappointed in you? Angry?_ The vision of scarlet electricity racing along your skin makes your heart seize, and it doesn’t help to remind yourself that she’s never before punished you like that. Your gait is stilted and resounding in the empty corridors, but there are no guards on post to stop you, and you know the codes to all the access panels. You are numb, body navigating the barracks of its own accord, acquiescent to its destination and whatever may greet you there.

Once, when another cadet slashed your thigh a little too deep, Shadow Weaver laid you down on the chrome examination table, one hand carefully threading stitch after stitch over the gash, and the other holding yours with a gentle, comforting pressure. You squeezed, feeling every tug of the needle as it knit your skin together, your eyes fixed on the exposed pipes running through the ceiling that blurred into a mass of rusted copper through your tears. She was gentle then. She did not scold.

The scar did not heal into a thin white line as you’d expected, but an angry pink smear. Your hand fell against the inch of neat little sutures while you slept, and you’d often wake in the middle of the night to find you’d been tugging at them subconsciously, blood dried beneath your fingernails. You scratch it now as you stand at the entrance to Shadow Weaver’s sanctum, the memory of her tenderness emboldening you to knock on the steel.

“Adora,” Shadow Weaver says, as the door to the Black Garnet room hisses open. You falter, unsure of what to say now that you are here. A _medical emergency_ is what you go with, hoping she will not ask you to elaborate until you are in the privacy of her room. Scintillating eyes rake over your shaking form, heeding your rigid stance, the white-knuckled clench of your fists, the agitation that is surely sloughing off of you in waves, and without another word she moves aside.

At her behest you make a pile of your jacket, boots and pants on the floor, clad in nothing but your awkwardly bulging trunks and a thin grey undershirt. The room isn’t cold, but you fold into yourself anyway, clutching your elbows tight. Gooseflesh breaks out across your skin, beginning at the damp spot on the back of your neck that spreads from your dripping hair. You clench your jaw hard to keep your teeth from chattering. Her expression is inscrutable as always but you sense no twitch of fury in her stance, only the slight inclination of her head, and the thoughtful poise with which she folds her arms over her chest. When you tell her the details of what brought you to her door, heat flares across your cheeks and down your neck, but all she does is nod.

“I have something that can help,” she says, and the surge of relief you feel is overpowering. “You are shaping up to be a fine soldier, and it wouldn’t do for you to be distracted by your monthly blood. Or any other…” she trails off, eyes roaming over you with a suppressed discernment you cannot place, “accidents.”

As she glides over to the medicine cabinet you wriggle onto the very edge of the steel mantle with your legs dangling, swinging them until the seemingly deafening rustle of wadded up toilet paper urges you to be still. You hear the tearing open of a sealed packet and a metallic click, and when Shadow Weaver turns around she is brandishing some sort of injection device tipped with the largest needle you’ve ever seen.

Your eyes go wide and your ears burn with apprehension. “Will it hurt?”

Shadow Weaver caresses the side of your face, and you automatically tilt your head into the touch. “Just for a moment,” she says, and her tone is so saccharinely mollifying that you believe her without hesitation.

First, a cold swab of rubbing alcohol against your upper arm, and then one of her hands turning it out and holding fast, the other positioning the needle. There is a pinch, the twinge of a foreign object burrowing deep into your tissue, trailing a searing sensation in its wake. You wince and resist the urge to twist out of her grasp. But then, like she promised, it is over and the needle automatically retracts as she removes it and drops it into a sanitary waste bin.

After she lays a bandage carefully over the entry wound, she floats back to the cupboard once more, and this time she hands you some sort of leather satchel. “For until the implant takes effect,” she says. You unfold the case to reveal three rows of ten bullet-shaped cotton balls, each with a string poked through the bottom.

It takes a moment for you to realize what they’re for, but when you do the fire across your cheeks is renewed. “Um, how,” you swallow, “how do I…” You are noticeably shaking now, in spite of yourself. And it doesn’t help you to notice the twitch of displeasure in Shadow Weaver’s stance.

“Lay down.” The long-suffering sigh of a weary commander as she pulls the satchel from your grasp.

If you could choose any moment to dissolve into the ether, this would be it. The intimacy of what you are about to do is cloying, nauseating, and your heart is beating so fast you are practically cross-eyed. “I….”

Shadow Weaver has little patience on the best of days. “On your back with your knees up,” she nearly snaps, a tone that you know well but have never been on the receiving end of. Even her clearest direct orders to you up until this point have been delivered with a honeyed edge. You aren’t used to her demands slicing you open, and it severs all of your nerves at once, rendering you immobile. “Now Adora,” she growls, and you’ve never heard your name like this before, frigid and scathing like an icicle running through your throat. When you don’t comply, she pushes you back into the cold metal herself.

It happens faster than you can properly process, faster than your mind can determine whether or not you should ask her to stop. _Shouldn’t she be wearing gloves?_ The absurd thought comes to you unbidden and it takes great effort to stifle the nervous huff of laughter that follows. There is nothing clinical in the way she clasps her hand over yours and guides it down between your legs, or in the way she pulls your shorts down to your ankles and rids you of the now blood-soaked paper.

“Don’t look down. You won’t be able to see where it goes, you have to feel it.” You obey, adjusting the angle blindly, surrendering to her guidance, swallowing your dismay, her fingers pressing yours up and in. This too hurts as it slides into place, a duller pain, but one that lingers.

“Well?” To your relief, her demeanor has settled back into relaxed affection, and the sharp edges of her words have smoothed. You nod, give her a weak smile, and the tears that were just prickling the corners of your eyes retreat. But almost instantly the cramping sensation returns with renewed intensity. You whimper and curl in on yourself, clutching your side. Her hands hover over your crumpled form, and when she speaks again it is with complete benevolence, and pressing concern. “You’re cramping.”

“Yes,” you manage to groan.

Gently, as if unfurling the injured wing of a dove, she pries your folded body open until you are lying flat on your back once again. You lay there, motionless, your abdomen throbbing, your limbs splayed, and your eyes searching hers. Shadow Weaver has never been easy to read, but you are patient and diligent and you pride yourself in being able to unravel the nuances of her body language and the intricacies of feeling that flicker in her eyes. Everything about her-- the entrancing undulation of her hair, the fluidity of her movements, the rapture of her power when she summons it-- exudes a certain opulence that you long to be caught up in. Still you cannot begin to guess what she is thinking when she takes your hand in hers and guides it between your legs once more.

“Touch,” she instructs, but you only stare at her, frozen with uncertainty. _Touch how?_

What sounds like a muffled chuckle escapes her, and you glance away, prepared to be reprimanded for your ignorance, but she says nothing. Instead she presses your fingers against yourself, and rubs you in slow, hypnotic circles. You shudder at the intensity of it, and how it seems to soothe the nebulous restlessness you’ve been feeling for quite some time. All of your muscles relax in a single breath, and your legs fall open wider to give yourself-- her really-- better access. There is a word for what you are doing, one that you’ve only heard echoing in the locker room from the crude mouths of teenage boys. It makes your stomach turn to recall their depraved laughter, and you deliberately halt your movements.

Shadow Weaver grunts her disapproval. “Come now,” she insists, “this will relieve you.” Your eyes search hers for an indication of how far she wants you to go, of how much surrender is permissible underneath her deliberating gaze. If you asked to be dismissed would she let you stagger back to the barracks and fall into your bed to nurse your twisting gut in private? Another cramp tears through you with the blinding intensity of a comet, and the whine that it forces out of you is answer enough. You want relief. This time you are the one who searches out the place and applies the pressure, and with her hand over yours, you begin to rub the cramps into nonexistence.

Pleasure tingles up your spine, making your lips part in an involuntary gasp and your eyelids flutter closed. “Good girl Adora,” Shadow Weaver sighs, all honeyed endearment, as if this were just another impeccably executed training routine. Your hips roll desperately into each languid stroke, and she is close enough for you to hear the ragged edge of her breathing, and feel the heat of her gaze on you, making you pant with need. You are here, engulfed in the current of her adoration, supine and surrendered to wherever it decides to take you. Made buoyant with the knowledge that her attention will never waver and you are hers to rend, and mend, and take.

“Keep going,” she instructs, as she removes her hand from atop yours, her words almost raspy. You feel her fingers glide across your stomach and push up your shirt and you arch your back, desperate for her to feel the soft weight of your breasts, how much bigger they’ve gotten. This touch isn’t a novelty, but the renewed context of it sparks a divine electricity all throughout your body, and you wonder if this is what you’ve been building up to all along-- every caress, every word of praise, every examination she gave you under the guise of scrutiny. Whenever you thought she was regarding you only as her tool, there was more, so much more beneath the surface. You are worth touching, worth pleasing, worth loving.

The elation you feel is unparalleled, one of her hands kneading your breast, the other palming your cheek, the Black Garnet humming in your ears, turning everything sumptuously red even behind your closed eyelids. She slides her thumb into your mouth and the memory of your earlier discomfort melts away completely. There is only the steady stroke of your fingers, the languid purr of satisfaction in the back of Shadow Weaver’s throat as she touches you, and the warm pulsating of the Runestone and your heart in tandem.

//

Vivid dreams slink and slur between bursts of wakefulness, and everytime you emerge, you long to toss the sheet aside and do something mind-numbing and productive until daybreak. But an order is an order. The Hall of Sorcerers is uncanny here, the faces of the past distorted, their shadows long and sinister and hardly ever still. _Are you sleeping well_ , she asks, her voice garbled and the shape of her indistinct, and it does not occur to you that Light Spinner’s statue is incapable of speech.

Angella is here too, or at least the impression of her, a broad-reaching spasm of light from a star to humble the rest of the galaxy. To banish all darkness to the furthest corners. You laugh, and Angella does not understand what is so funny to you, nor can you explain. Nevertheless, with her here it’s even more obvious how absurd it is to be anxious in this place, especially after it was you and you alone who defeated Shadow Weaver in the Lunarium.

You are nearly doubled over with glee, and naked although this is not a particularly odd occurence in dream world. Angella seizes you by the shoulders and shakes you, and vaguely you understand that she is trying to snap you out of whatever fit you’re in, although she might as well be miles away-- lightyears even-- if she really is the sun and you are some cold, distant planetoid. Even the furious kisses she plants all over your face and neck do nothing to stem the flow of giggles. You sway in front of her, unable to identify the look she is giving you-- annoyance perhaps, or pity, or something entirely incomprehensible. It is hard to decipher any dream while you are in the throes of it. You are only sure of her loveliness, and the practiced grace with which the Queen of Bright Moon drops to her knees, and buries her head between your thighs. Space is, after all, limitless. At once your giddy bubble of laughter bursts against her tongue and all you can do is keen.

You moan shamelessly, the stroke of her tongue mesmerising, her movements sure, the impossibility of the situation as unfathomable to you as the stars themselves. She pulls her head back for a moment, and your eyes meet. _I love you,_ Shadow Weaver says but she’s lying and whispering it over and over in your ear, pulling your hair and touching, scratching, biting, everywhere she can reach.

The room is tilting now, long dead faces melting and blurring. Light Spinner and Micah and the line of unnamed ghosts behind them, all a grotesque slur of gaping mouths and blank eyes bleeding towards you. Angella holds you tight against her mouth, and when you attempt to break free your muscles do not cooperate. Your lungs are so sore with the effort of holding both fear and pleasure in your chest you think they might burst right through your ribcage if the sticky grey-pink mass of molten marble doesn’t engulf you first her lips are so soft and even when you shut your eyes you see everything feel her nails on your skin through her gloves the pulse between your legs does not cease even when you squeeze her head into you and the shadows are reaching and reaching and winding and winding and scalding you everywhere they touch.

Cold gasps of night air sting your lungs and crimson spots swim in your eyes until they adjust to the darkness of your room. Gauzy curtains dance against the open window, though you could have sworn they were ghosts. You wake up throbbing with the sheet bunched up between your legs, and even before you slide your hand beneath the folds of it, you know exactly what kind of storm you will find.

You are still half in the nightmare though, and scraps of it float to the surface of your fantasies. Cotton swathed hands caressing your cheeks. Soft pink hair tangled in your fingers. Iridescent feathers brushing against your naked skin. A sigh escapes you before you can stifle it, but you are too worked up to be self-conscious. _Angella._ Your other hand finds its way up your shirt. _She asked you to call her Angella_. The pleasure this simple allowance gives you is both familiar and immeasurably strange.

It’s something you would have never dared imagine while living in the Fright Zone, and that alone thrills you. You squeeze and pinch and rub, imagining the Queen of Bright Moon parting your lips with her tongue and sighing into your mouth as her fingers thrust in and out of you. Or maybe she’d straddle you, like you imagine she rode King Micah, in their marital bed with her wings spread wide, the gauzy canopy spilling over them like a waterfall. In your mind, he holds her hips with those strong sorcerer’s hands, pulling her closer with every thrust. And then it is you she’s looking down at, eyes glazed with lust and hair tousled, and she leans over to rub her nipples against yours, and stroke your cheeks, brushing the tears away.

 _Mom stuff_ _Mom stuff Mom stuff Mom stuff Mom stuff._ Glimmer’s words thrum beneath these visions like a pulse, but it doesn’t matter. It is clear now that there was not even an echo of maternity in the way Shadow Weaver tended to you, even less so in the tenuous rapport you have with the Queen.

You rock back and forth against your own fingers, building static beneath your skin until there is enough to shock you, until every muscle in your body tenses with a shuddering spasm of electricity. It’s the first time you’ve ever done this in the privacy of a room entirely your own, so you permit yourself to thrash and buck and groan as much as you please. Simultaneously, the fantasy you conjure strokes a deeper part of you. All you need are her words, breathing ticklish affirmations into your ear. You are such a good soldier, an irreplaceable tool. So obedient and eager. There is no limit to what you would do for your cause, for your queen. And doesn’t it feel so so good to be hers?

You crest so suddenly there is a sting to it, like a rubber band snapping against your skin-- something you’d often do to keep yourself alert during night shift drills. Shadow Weaver would run her fingers over the red welts gently, almost reverently, and chide you for not taking better care of yourself. You grit your teeth as the aftershocks roll through you and jerk your hand away.

Loose hairs stick to your face. Sweat plasters fabric to skin. Gasp after strangled gasp stutters out of you, and you roll onto your back with your limbs splayed wide and rest your forearm over your tightly closed eyes. The sheet is still tangled around your legs, but you can’t be bothered to extricate it. You sink into the firm mattress, consciously bringing your breathing back to normal as the remnants of pleasure hum through your core all the way up to the back of your throat.

Eventually exhaustion curls its fingers around you, and your eyelids become heavy of their own accord. This is what you’ve been waiting for then-- a quiet mind, a body buzzing not with restlessness but with contentment. And the notion, swaddling you as gently as a shroud, that Angella could gather your scarred, ruined self in her arms and give you what Shadow Weaver never could.

//

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1\. Yes I knOw Etheria has no sun or stars just let me have my space metaphors ok??  
> 2\. I’ve watched “In the Shadows of Mystacor” at least 50 times by now so AMA.  
> 3\. I know this was supposed to be the last part don’t @ me. Part 3 is mostly written and I’m aiming for the end of May but the more u prod me with nice comments n kudoses the faster I go  
> 4\. The teethy extraction went fine thx for askin...I got em tattooed on me n everythin


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